Dragonskull: Blade of the Elves

By Jonathan Moeller

A knight armed with sword & shield isn't prepared for a dagger in the back.

Gareth Arban intends to return to Tarlion to marry the woman he loves.

But dark forces seek the Dragonskull, the lost relic of power, and Gareth is the key to finding it.

Unless Gareth watches his back, his death will be the first step on the path to the Dragonskull...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jonathan Moeller
• Release date: Mar 7, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005697075

Jonathan Moeller

Standing over six feet tall, Jonathan Moeller has the piercing blue eyes of a Conan of Cimmeria, the bronze-colored hair of a Visigothic warrior-king, and the stern visage of a captain of men, none of which are useful in his career as a computer repairman, alas.He has written the "Demonsouled" trilogy of sword-and-sorcery novels, and continues to write the "Ghosts" sequence about assassin and spy Caina Amalas, the "$0.99 Beginner's Guide" series of computer books, and numerous other works.Visit his website at:http://www.jonathanmoeller.comVisit his technology blog at:http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/screed

Book preview

DRAGONSKULL: BLADE OF THE ELVES

Jonathan Moeller

***

Description

A knight armed with sword & shield isn't prepared for a dagger in the back.

Gareth Arban intends to return to Tarlion to marry the woman he loves.

But dark forces seek the Dragonskull, the lost relic of power, and Gareth is the key to finding it.

Unless Gareth watches his back, his death will be the first step on the path to the Dragonskull...

***

Dragonskull: Blade of the Elves

Copyright 2022 by Jonathan Moeller.

Smashwords Edition.

Some cover images copyright Photo 106270295 © Stevanovicigor | Dreamstime.com & Photo 184125892 / Gloomy Moor © Piotr Janas | Dreamstime.com & © Boykung | Dreamstime.com - Emerald Photo.

Ebook edition published March 2022.

All Rights Reserved.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.

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***

A brief author’s note

A map of the realm of Andomhaim is available on the author’s website at this link (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=4487).

***

Chapter 1: Unknown Foes

Lord Constantine gave his men strict orders not to enter the forest for any reason.

Given that anyone who visited the Shaluuskan Forest tended not to return, Gareth supposed, it made for an easy command to obey.

The forest itself didn’t look all that intimidating. Indeed, it was a pleasant day, considering that the winters along Andomhaim’s southern coast tended towards the rainy. It was December of the Year of Our Lord 1499, with the Feastival of the Nativity and the New Year a short time away, and the parties of Dux Constantine Licinius and Prince Tywall Gwyrdragon rode east along the coast road. The sky overhead was blue and clear, dotted with puffy white clouds. Fifty yards south of the road, the land sloped to the beach and then the sea. The ocean changed colors depending on the light, and today it was a brilliant blue, smashing against the beach in plumes of white foam.

Fifty yards north of the road stretched the Shaluuskan Forest.

Crake grunted. Doesn’t look all that dangerous.

The appearance of things is often deceiving, said Philip.

Gareth was inclined to agree with his friends.

Crake was right – the Shaluuskan Forest did not look intimidating. The Qazaluuskan Forest on the northeastern borders of Andomhaim looked as dangerous as it was. Its ancient trees rose overhead, the overlapping branches forming a canopy, the silence oppressive and menacing. By contrast, the Shaluuskan Forest looked like…well, a forest, if a bit denser than most.

Do you think they’re watching us right now? said Jerome.

Probably, said Gareth. My father says the ghost orcs can turn invisible for an hour or so every day. He waved a hand at the long line of horsemen and wagons moving east along the road. They wouldn’t miss four hundred people. Some of their rangers are probably watching to make sure that we stay on the road.

Disturbing thought, said Jerome, and he crossed himself.

Eh, not really, said Crake. The ghost orcs helped us against the Heptarchy, didn’t they?

They did, said Gareth. My father always says we might not have won the war without their help.

He expected Crake to mock him for that. Whenever Gareth mentioned his father, Crake almost always made a joke about how Gareth had to be a disappointment to the Constable of Tarlion. But this time, Crake didn’t. He hated the Heptarchy and took anything related to them seriously.

I’ve no quarrel with that, said Crake. They helped us chase the Heptarchy into the sea, didn’t they? If they want to live in peace in their homeland without strangers trampling mud onto the floor, well, then let them live in peace. Besides, I reckon they were here first, weren’t they? Before humans showed up.

Everyone was here before us, said Philip. All of Andomhaim lies upon conquered land.

Or land that had been emptied by the hunger of the urdmordar, said Gareth. The city that would become Tarlion had been an abandoned ruin when Malahan Pendragon and his followers had founded the realm of Andomhaim.

Crake made a dismissive gesture. Eh, everybody’s been fighting everybody else for thousands of years before humans even showed up. That’s what you always say when you quote history at us, isn’t it, Southron?

Something like that, yes, said Gareth, and he laughed.

The others all looked at him in surprise. Gareth supposed he didn’t laugh all that often.

What? said Crake, giving him a suspicious look.

Nothing, said Gareth. It just occurred to me, though. You’ve always called me the Southron, he waved his hand at the ocean, and we’re as far south as we can go and stay in Andomhaim.

Reckon we are at that, said Crake. At least until the High King pushes the Heptarchy off the Isle of Kordain. Then you can be the Mostly Southron.

Jerome scratched his chin. That doesn’t really roll off the tongue.

I’m a knight, not a bard.

Gareth’s mind wandered as his friends settled into their usual amiable bickering. Most of the conversation revolved around Prince Tywall’s impending wedding to Sabrina Arban in Tarlion, which was the entire point of their journey. Crake wondered if the taverns and brothels of Tarlion were equal to those of Cintarra. Philip pointed out that they wouldn’t have to worry about the Spider Cult making trouble in Tarlion – the city’s walls were warded against dark magic, and neither creatures nor wielders of dark power could pass the city’s gates.

We might have to worry about cultists, though, said Gareth. Someone like Adam Tertius didn’t have dark magic. He could come and go from Tarlion as he pleased, and he could slip a dagger into the Prince’s back when we’re not looking.

We shall just have to be watchful, then, said Philip.

But the Prince will be better guarded in Tarlion than in Cintarra, said Jerome, as if trying to reassure himself. Gareth could not quite understand how Jerome could be prone to such nervous spirals of conversation and yet wield his sword in battle with precise and unflinching skill. All the Swordbearers will be there, and the Magistri, aye? He looked at Gareth. And your father and the Keeper of Andomhaim.

I’ve met them, yes, said Gareth. He had not seen his parents since he had left Tarlion to serve as a squire at Castra Marcaine. A lot had happened since then. Gareth had written letters every month, but he had not left on the best of terms. He didn’t know what would happen when he saw his mother again.

Especially since Gareth intended to immediately challenge Sir Thomas Olwen for Iseult’s hand.

He had no idea how his mother and father would react.

No. It would end well. Gareth would force Sir Thomas to abandon his betrothal to Iseult. Then he would wed her, and once that happened, all would be well. Gareth would be with the woman he loved, and his mother and father would understand, or at least come to terms with it.

So we shouldn’t expect the Spider Cult to make trouble in Tarlion, said Jerome.

We’re knights, said Philip. We should be ready for battle at all times.

Crake grunted. And if more cultists show up to make trouble, we’ll just have to cut off their heads.

Aye, said Gareth. The trouble is that we can’t see the future.

The others looked at each other.

Yes, obviously, said Crake. Unless you claim to be a prophet, Southron.

That would be his sister.

No, no, think about it, said Gareth. We thought we were prepared, aye? We found Adam Tertius and wiped out the arachar with him. Then Colazara had that weapon that turned the courtyard to sand, and we were almost all killed with the Prince.

They considered that in silence.

Well, said Crake, to be fair, who ever heard of a weapon that could turn stone into sand?

Though the Heptarchy won’t be using that particular weapon again, said Jerome with some satisfaction. Crake had smashed the weapon, and the blast of released magic had turned Colazara to stone, who had promptly shattered into sand.

But Gareth’s right, said Philip. The enemy might have another stratagem we can’t foresee. Maybe not as dramatic as a magical siege weapon, but something that still might take us off guard.

Then we’ll have to remain vigilant, said Jerome.

Crake snorted again. We should do that anyway.

Besides, the high elves will be there, said Gareth. That’s the whole point of the Great Council of the Realm. The Pact of the Two Orders. Every hundred years, an embassy comes from the high elves’ city of Cathair Solas, and the archmage Ardrhythain forges a hundred new soulblades.

Do you think the high elves will be any good in a fight? said Crake. I mean, the dark elves and the urdmordar wiped them out a long time ago, aye? All that’s left are the ones in Cathair Solas.

They made the soulblades and taught the Magistri their magic, said Philip. I expect that the Spider Cult wouldn’t want to make trouble with the high elves.

Gareth said nothing. He knew that his father had met Lord Ardrhythain, the last archmage of the high elves, several times, but Gareth knew few details about those meetings. His father, for the most part, had always answered Gareth’s questions freely, but he never discussed Ardrhythain or his visits to Cathair Solas.

Well, said Crake, maybe the Prince will have a nice peaceful wedding, then we’ll all get drunk at the feast and find some lonely women. Except for the Southron, of course, because he’ll be betrothed to Iseult once he beats up that old man. Gareth glared at him, and Crake shrugged. What? That’s your plan, isn’t it? Challenge Sir Thomas for Iseult’s hand, force him to break the betrothal, and then ask Iseult to marry you?

I’m going to challenge Thomas for Iseult’s hand, yes, said Gareth. You make it sound like a tavern brawl.

And Thomas Olwen isn’t all that old, said Philip. I think he’s forty.

Forty! exclaimed Crake. He might as well be a hundred years old.

He’s not that old, said Philip. I’m afraid he’s quite fat, though.

That’s worse. You’re going to beat up a fat old man and take his betrothed, said Crake.

Gareth felt a wave of anger, tried to think of something to say, and failed. Because there was a kernel of truth to Crake’s words. Sir Thomas was richer than Gareth, but he was not Gareth’s physical equal. During their previous duel, Gareth had disarmed and defeated him without much difficulty. He had been satisfying to see the cold arrogance in Thomas’s eyes change to cringing terror. But Gareth had only been a squire, and a duel between a squire and a knight was not legally binding. Indeed, if Thomas had wanted, he could have brought charges against Gareth at the High King’s court. Gareth knew that it had been his father’s intervention that had sent him into semi-exile as a squire in Dux Constantine’s court.

But now Gareth was a knight and had made a name for himself in battle. He could challenge Thomas to a duel, and the lords of Andomhaim would have to respect the outcome.

He met Crake’s gaze. I love Iseult, and I will do what I must to win her hand.

Crake considered that, nodded. All right. Do what you have to do. Though we’ll all witness the duel. Won’t we, lads? The others nodded their agreement, and Gareth felt oddly gratified.

He was spared the need to think of an answer by the approach of a halfling riding a shaggy mountain pony.

Dietmar of Cintarra rode well. The men of Durandis bred those ponies for use in the hills, and while they were not as fast or as vicious as a knight’s war horse, the animals had amazing stamina. Dietmar had blond hair that was fading to white and enormous gray eyes. Halfling faces looked subtly different from human ones – a bit rounder, with larger eyes. Dietmar seemed like the perfect halfling servant and household retainer, but he had the wary vigilance that Gareth had seen in veteran soldiers.

Sirs, said Dietmar. I am sorry for the intrusion.

It’s all right, said Gareth.

You can come join us in our glorious defense of the baggage train, said Crake, waving a hand at the wagons.

Concerning that, sirs, said Dietmar, I think there is something that you should see. Specifically you, Sir Philip. I understand you have a great deal of experience as a hunter and a tracker?

That’s correct, said Philip. I can’t claim to be an expert on the wilderness, but I do have some knowledge. That was characteristically understated. Gareth could survive in the wild if necessary, but out of all of them, Philip knew the most and would likely survive the longest away from civilization.

Very good, said Dietmar. This way, please.

The halfling rode south towards the beach, Philip following him. Gareth, Jerome, and Crake hadn’t been invited along, but they hadn’t been told to stay behind. Besides, it wasn’t as if Dietmar could give them orders, though his advice was usually sensible. They rode through high grasses and onto the beach.

Gareth had never really given it much thought, but there were numerous different kinds of beaches – some smooth and sandy, some rocky, some covered with gravel. This beach was broad and sandy, with pieces of driftwood scattered here and there.

Why were you riding along the beach? said Crake. The scenery?

While the ocean is an impressive sight, I’m afraid my errand was more practical, said Dietmar. Heptarchy raiders sometimes bury supply caches in the sand in preparation for future raids.

I’m surprised they would do that so close to the ghost orcs’ forest, said Jerome, glancing back to the north. The trees were just barely visible from here.

I doubt they would normally, said Dietmar, but they may risk it for a chance to kill or abduct the Prince. Here we are, sirs. I warn you the sight is somewhat unpleasant.

A hollow driftwood log lay across the sand, one end half-buried. There were a lot of tracks in the sand near the log. Gareth was no expert at reading prints, but it looked as if a large animal had run across the beach recently.

A faint smell of rotting meat came to his nostrils.

Philip frowned and reined up his horse, holding up his hand for the others to stop. Don’t let the horses come any closer. I want a look at these tracks.

Gareth and the others dismounted, and they approached the log, keeping away from the tracks.

The source of the rotting scent came into sight.

A deer’s head lay upon the sand.

The stump of the neck was ragged as if the head had been ripped from the rest of the body by brutal force. Something long lay next to the deer, colored a mottled shade of red and white. It took a moment for Gareth to realize that the object was the deer’s spinal column, the vertebrae still in place around it.

There was absolutely no sign of the rest of the deer.

That’s a bit odd, said Crake at last.

You can see, sirs, why I thought someone should look at the prints, said Dietmar.

Philip frowned at the tracks on the sand.

A lion or a wolf? said Jerome.

Doubt it, said Crake. You’ve seen wolf kills back home, aye? Wolves aren’t exactly tidy about it. Where’s the rest of the deer? He shrugged. Maybe a shark did for the deer, and the head and the spine washed ashore.

What’s a shark? said Jerome.

Big fish thing, said Crake. Lot of teeth. They don’t come close to the shore, but if a fisherman falls overboard far enough out, sharks might get him. Maybe the deer got swept into the sea, the shark ate it, and the rest washed ashore here.

No, said Philip. Look at the sand. Whatever left those tracks was carrying the head and dropped it here before continuing onward. He stared at the ground, then nodded and pointed. Look at that print.

The print in question looked vaguely like that of a wolf’s paw, but it was too big. It was larger than Gareth’s palm, come to think of it, and almost the size of a bear’s track. He could see the holes in the sand where the claws had pressed down with the animal’s stride.

Animal…or creature.

Urvaalg? said Gareth.

I don’t know, said Philip. I’ve never seen a print like this before. That surprised Gareth. It had been a long time since he had known Philip to be baffled by an animal track.

Ursaar? said Crake. Jerome swallowed and looked around.

No, said Philip. I don’t know what it is. But a normal animal wouldn’t rip off a deer’s head, pull out its spine, and leave them on a beach. He turned to Dietmar. Did you see any other parts of the deer?

I’m afraid not, sir.

Maybe we can follow the tracks, said Jerome.

Gareth shook his head. Look. They disappear below the tide line. The beast circled up, dropped the head and the spine here, and kept going.

Could the ghost orcs have done it? said Jerome. As a warning? The way those kobolds in the Shadow Ways left skulls out to mark the edge of their territory.

I’ve never heard of the ghost orcs doing anything like that, said Gareth. They have such a fearsome reputation that they don’t need to stick heads on spears outside of their forest.

Perhaps we should bring this matter to the attention of Lady Moriah, sirs, said Dietmar.

Gareth was uneasy around Moriah Lordsbane. For one, something about her cynical, knowing attitude set his teeth on edge. For another, she was the head of the Order of the Ravens, the spies who served Prince Tywall and hunted the servants of the Spider Cult. After his experiences in Cintarra, Gareth conceded that Andomhaim needed to fight a shadow war against the agents of the Heptarchy infiltrating the realm.

It still felt unknightly.

Fortunately, Lord Niall, Moriah’s husband and the Constable of Cintarra, was far more approachable.

Yes, you’re right, said Gareth.

Should we bring the head? said Jerome.

Crake raised an eyebrow. You want to bring a rotting deer head to the Constable of Cintarra and his wife?

Well, he might not believe us otherwise.

Lord Niall and Lady Moriah know you are not ones to tell fanciful tales, sirs, said Dietmar. This way.

They rode up the beach and came back to the coast road. Gareth and the others rode past the lumbering wagons of the supply train, exchanging quick greetings with the drivers and the men-at-arms. They passed the footmen and came to where the lords and knights rode at the head of the column. The riders were a mix of nobles from the Northerland and Cintarra. Some had accompanied Dux Constantine on his journey south from Castra Marcaine, and others had been chosen by the Prince to escort him to his wedding in Tarlion.

Niall, Moriah, and their household rode towards the middle of the nobles. Lord Niall wore chain mail and half plate, his soulblade at his belt. Every so often, he glanced towards the sea, as if expecting to see Heptarchy warships. His wife Moriah wore a green traveling dress, divided front and back for easy riding, leggings, riding boots, and a belt with a sword and dagger on it. Her red hair had been bound back in a thick braid that was stark against the green cloth. She carried her youngest daughter before her in the saddle, a girl of about a year and a half who looked around at everything with curious eyes. Niall and Moriah’s household, a mixture of halflings and humans, traveled with them, looking after their older two children. Gareth could never quite recall their names.

Trouble, said Moriah.

What? said Niall.

Sir Gareth, Sir Philip, Sir Crake, and Sir Jerome, said Moriah. They’re coming to see you, so there’s bound to be trouble.

There’s God’s own truth, said Niall. I suppose we should be grateful there are no taverns along the coast road where you can corrupt the Prince’s character further.

Gareth suppressed a scowl, but Crake laughed. Begging my lady’s pardon, but we don’t go looking for trouble. It just seems to find us very easily.

Gareth found that he could not disagree.

My lady, said Dietmar. My lord. We found something of potential concern. Sir Philip?

Philip cleared his throat and described what they had found on the beach, taking care with his words to avoid frightening the little girl that Moriah held. Niall’s and Moriah’s faces grew grim as Philip described the tracks. The girl shifted, perhaps reacting to her mother’s change in mood, and Moriah leaned down and kissed her atop the head.

You’re sure it wasn’t an urvaalg’s tracks? said Niall. Or an ursaar?

I’m entirely certain, my lord, said Philip. I’ve seen both urvaalg and ursaar tracks before. This was neither.

It might be something new, said Moriah. Something from the Deeps.

Aye, said Niall. His gaze shifted to Gareth. During the Heptarchy War, right after the siege of Cynan’s Tower but before the fall of Cintarra, I remember your father talking to Warlord Shalmathrak of the ghost orcs. He said there were a half-dozen major entrances to the Deeps along the coast road, and the ghost orcs had to be ever-vigilant for both creatures from the Deeps and dvargir slavers. His mouth twisted. Evidently the novelty of a ghost orc slave can fetch high prices in the markets of Khaldurmar.

There is another possibility, said Moriah. It might be some new war beast of the Heptarchy, one that we haven’t seen before.

We’ll have to remain on our guard, said Niall. He glanced around the column. Though we already are.

He had a point. It was hard to see how the men could be more vigilant. Everyone in the traveling party was armed, and horsemen screened the southern side of the road, keeping watch on the sea. Some of the Dux’s and the Prince’s men watched the forest to the north, though Gareth supposed that was pointless. The Shaluuskan orcs would not attack unless they were first attacked, and they would keep anyone from moving through their forest.

Still, the ghost orcs were not infallible.

Maybe they didn’t recognize the tracks on the beach, either.

We’re ready for any attack from the sea, said Moriah. But it’s the attacks that you don’t see coming that cause the problems.

Like a magical weapon that can turn stone to sand? said Gareth.

Exactly right, Sir Gareth, said Moriah. Of course, we all learned that the hard way.

Or the Heptarchy crossing the ocean for the first time, said Niall. We should tell the Prince of this. Niall was more or less in command of the Prince’s escort, and Tywall would probably agree with whatever his Constable told him. I’ll have some of the Swordbearers stay with him and the rest spread out along the column. That way, if some sort of dark elven war beast has crawled up from the Deeps, we can…

We’re stopping, said Moriah.

Gareth looked ahead and saw that the column was halting, the horsemen reining up, the carts and wagons stopping with muttered curses from their drivers and snorts from their animals.

It’s too early for the midday break, said Niall.

A horseman galloped down the line towards them, a man-at-arms in Dux Constantine’s colors. His name was Curtius, and he was one of the decurions in command of Constantine’s footmen. And if he was riding somewhere in haste, that meant something was wrong.

Lord Niall! said Curtius, reining a few paces away.

Aye, what is it? said Niall.

The Dux and the Prince ask for your counsel, said the man-at-arms. Something strange has happened.

Strange? said Niall.

"The ghost orcs have come